


It's gonna take some time to do the things we never have

by Comedia



Category: Marvel (Movies)
Genre: Falling In Love, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 13:59:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Comedia/pseuds/Comedia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the most beautiful thing, watching Clint laugh. Normally he's all kinds of masks; sneering and smirking and thin smiles. Laughing he's carefree and open, a clear sound that more often than not ends in a snort.</p><p>"No way boss, if I bring liquor too often you might get the impression I'm trying to get you drunk."</p><p>Phil doesn't mention that this new tradition of theirs does run the risk of getting him drunk in other, more permanent ways, and hands Clint a bar of toffee before he's able to follow that train of thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's gonna take some time to do the things we never have

**Author's Note:**

> This is the story of how I woke up one day and realized "Clint and Phil are meant for each other!" Obviously this resulted in a lot of writing and a bunch of headcanons. For example, Clint snorts when he laughs. Phil thinks it's adorable.

Sometime around midnight there's a knock on Phil's door. None of the junior agents would dare bothering him this late, so it's either Fury or bad news. Opening the door he realizes the hallway is empty, but on the floor a bottle of wine is waiting for him.

He stares at it for quite some time before picking it up. It doesn't seem to be dangerous, but he should probably have the lab take a few tests before actually drinking any of it. There's no note, no wrapping paper or a pretty bow to indicate it's a present. It's not until he notices the origin of the wine that he realizes it's safe to drink. The bottle is from a winery in South Africa, and Phil’s been waiting for Barton to report back for a while now.

Putting the bottle on his desk he gets back to work. Admittedly this would be the perfect time to wrap up and leave for the night, but on the other hand, laziness didn’t gain him the status as legendary among the junior agents.

However, before he can actually start reading up on his new assignment Barton comes barging in, clothes crinkly from traveling and already ranting.

"It seemed like a good idea, to just gift and run. But know what, I carried that thing across half the planet. I want a taste."

Phil raises an eyebrow in question, but puts his papers down. “As far as I know you don’t have any claim to gifts once they’re given.”

Barton rolls his eyes at that. “Got any glasses?”

And really, why would Phil have wineglasses in his office? He nods towards the coffee mugs on his desk, mugs that he couldn’t be bothered to bring to the dishwasher and have been part of his interior decoration for a week or so.

Barton picks one of the mugs up, making a point of inspecting the coffee stains, only to shrug and reach for the wine. “They’ll do.”

It’s been Barton’s first solo mission, and it’s the first time they do this kind of thing. Sipping red wine in the middle of the night Phil asks for a briefing on the mission, and Barton just winks and says he’ll have to read the report if he wants all the juicy details. They’re not agent and handler anymore, they’re colleagues, and while it’s different it’s not necessarily a bad change. Besides, most things are still the same. Barton’s still an asshole, and Phil still won’t hesitate to throw pens at him if his behavior calls for it.

It becomes kind of their thing from that moment on. Whenever he's been off on a mission Barton will invade Phil's private life upon his return, and he'll always bring something from the country he's been stationed in. An edible souvenir; be it coffee, tea, liquor or candy.  
  
Returning from a mission in England he shows up in Phil's office with a dainty teapot and cups with flowery patterns. The tea is apparently organic and supposed to be relaxing or a detox or something – Barton's main reason for buying it seems to be its deep red color and how it creeps people out, though.

Phil is too tired to question the fact that Barton seems perfectly fine with drinking wine from dirty coffee cups, but only serves tea in the most delicate porcelain. He accepts one of the steaming cups – _no milk Barton, are you mad_ – and relaxes in his chair, not caring that the red liquid burns the roof of his mouth with every sip.

They remain quiet throughout the visit, and when Barton is about to leave he stops by the door, only turning to nod at the tea set. “Keep it. ‘til next time.”

And Phil wouldn't be able to bring himself to argue, even if he wanted to. He's pretty much speechless, staring at the teapot covered in patterns of violets, as he listens to the echo of Barton's footsteps fade to nothing but the static of his computer.  
  
The next time Barton disappears on a mission Phil isn't briefed on where he's going. For five weeks the world's greatest marksman completely vanishes, and when he reappears it’s outside Phil's bedroom window, knocking on the glass with a shit-eating grin.

Phil thanks the heavens that he didn't sleep in the nude for once, and opens the window as if he owes it to Barton – as if ignoring him and going back to sleep wasn't an option.

He glares at the archer, and gets nothing but a smile and a paper bag showed in his face in return.

"Open it."

"Clint, this isn't normal." He accepts the bag with only a moment of hesitation. Once he dares open it and glances down at the contents it takes a while for his eyes to adjust. He's barely awake, and the only thing reminding him that this isn't a dream is the fact that Barton's still fully clothed; he's been meaning to deal with the troubling series of dreams for quite some time, but Barton's recent obsession with gifts hasn't exactly helped getting rid of them.

"Since when has 'not normal' ever bothered you, Phil?" Barton puts an emphasis on his name; a hint of unnecessary tongue at the end, licking his lips as he awaits a reaction. Only then does Phil notice he addressed Clint by his first name. He would blame it on being tired, but yet again, by doing so he'd be lying to himself.

When he doesn't say anything, nor unwraps the gift in the paper bag, Clint simply smirks and sits down on the windowsill. "Besides, want to know what's not normal? Your Captain America toothbrush."

For a moment Phil is stunned, and then he raises an eyebrow in question, even though he's not sure if he actually wants his question answered.

"And how would you know what my toothbrush looks like, Barton? You've been through my apartment before?"

Clint snorts at that, shaking his head. "I don't doubt for a second you'd be flattered if I was actually stalking you." He hesitates for a moment, running a hand through his hair and looking all too smug. Then, with a nod in the general direction of Phil's bathroom, he starts speaking again. "No need to worry though. I simply knocked on the wrong window before finding my way here. Couldn't help but notice the red, white and blue rod in there, for a second I thought it was..."

Phil is quick to interrupt once he realizes where the discussion is heading.

"Yeah, I get the picture, and had that been the case we would be having a discussion about how purple is a much more suitable color for such purposes, would we not?" He sits down on his bed, feeling both tired and at ease – it’s a strange mixture of feelings that no one but Clint seems to be able to trigger. Whenever Clint leaves, part of Phil loses focus; days like these are when the world, once again, is nothing but crystal clear.

Clint seems genuinely stunned for a while, and then he's back to being generally smug. "Most likely. How about you unwrap the toffee? I mixed flavors that seemed delicious with flavors that sounded horrible. It'll be like a fun game of Russian roulette."

Phil opens the bag at that, revealing a heavy box with dozens of toffee bars. "Where were you this time?"

He doesn't look up from the candy, and perhaps he should, because these things shouldn't be hard to talk about, and yet...

"Scotland."

Phil makes a surprised sound – he can barely identify it himself – and finally looks at Clint once again. "No whiskey?"

It's the most beautiful thing, watching Clint laugh. Normally he's all kinds of masks; sneering and smirking and thin smiles. Laughing he's carefree and open, a clear sound that more often than not ends with a snort.

"No way boss, if I bring liquor too often you might get the impression I'm trying to get you drunk."

Phil doesn't mention that this new tradition of theirs does run the risk of getting him drunk in other, more permanent ways, and hands Clint a bar of toffee before he's able to follow that train of thought.

They share a few pieces of candy, ending up making all kinds of grimaces when encountering the oddly flavored ones. After a while he's thankful that Clint settled for the toffee; just watching him eat proves to be more entertaining than S.H.I.E.L.D regulations would probably prefer – not that Phil would ever break the fraternization regulations. What he's doing is completely harmless; no one has ever gotten in trouble because of simple observation.  
  
When Phil is on a brief mission in Amsterdam he can't help but buy a bottle of absinthe, mostly because it's tacky and tiny and reminds him of Clint. But thing is, Phil would never show up uninvited at Clint's apartment simply to hand him a present, and so he waits.

He waits through meetings they attend together, practice at the shooting range and lunch with recruits at the food court. It's not until a few days later, when he's about to lock himself in his office to finish some paperwork and finds Clint already there – lying on his couch as if there's no place he'd rather be – that Phil can actually hand him the gift in private. He's not sure why the privacy is so important to him; it's just that this is _their_ thing. It'd feel odd to do it in front of their colleagues.  
  
Clint stares at the bottle for a long time, his eyes bright and his lips pulled into a smile. For a moment he seems genuinely touched, but his smile quickly turns into a smirk.

"Is this your way of saying you want to get hammered tonight?"

Phil breathes a laugh at that. "If a bottle that size is your idea of getting hammered, sure."

Clint tries to look nonchalant as he opens the bottle, throwing the cap on the floor and drinking half of the content in one sweeping motion. Phil can’t really help the way he’s transfixed by Clint’s lips against the tiny bottleneck, the squint of his eyes as he swallows the spicy liquor down.

Holding the bottle in Phil’s general direction he awaits eagerly for him to accept it. “Your turn boss.”

And it’s pathetic really, the way his heart aches because of the simple reason that they’re drinking from the same bottle. Not wanting to be outdone by Clint he swallows the remaining alcohol down, opening his eyes to find the archer staring intently at him. He would do best not to follow this path, not to question any of Clint’s actions, and so he remains silent.

It’s not exactly awkward, but it’s a silence that speaks volumes; the fact that both of them know by now that they could take this so much further, yet has decided not to. Phil wouldn’t be foolish enough to guess what Clint’s reasons might be, he knows the man well enough not to, but perhaps he thinks, perhaps next time they’ll at least talk about this.

The last thing he remembers is Barton being compromised. The Helicarrier being under attack. The decision to take a stupid risk, because someone has to, and that particular decision not having the best results.

During several weeks there’s nothing but darkness. He’s not really aware of time at all. Every once in a while a burst of pain will shock him to consciousness, but his sight won’t have the time to clear until the medics have him sedated again.

Waking up doesn’t prove to be much of a change. In fact, merely a couple of days pass until he wishes he was still asleep. Because apparently they have now deemed him fit enough to be awake, but not fit enough to do anything but keep his eyes open and breathe. He’s not allowed to get up, he’s not allowed to read or write – he’s definitely not allowed to work – and obviously he’s not allowed visitors, as Fury still deems it important for him to stay dead.

Phil can’t say that he’s exactly pleased with the situation, but he can’t complain either; mostly because he’s too tired to. But as the days go by and he starts eating properly again the world seems a bit more real. He starts thinking about what has happened, and the possible consequences.

More than anything he keeps thinking about Clint, and how these past months must’ve come to shape him. While Fury is still keeping Phil in the dark about most things that happened in New York, he at least let slip that Barton made it out okay. That the Avengers finally came together – much thanks to Phil choosing the perfect moment to die.

But the more Phil thinks about it, the less he wants to be dead – the less he’s willing to give S.H.I.E.L.D this part of him as well. He’s thinking about how Clint might feel about this, and what it’ll do to him once he finds out about the lie. By each day Phil feels all the more uncomfortable, and once he’s cleared to start his rehabilitation – and is allowed to work again – he spends many hours aimlessly wandering the corridors outside his room, lost in thought.

The first time he escapes to the roof is in the middle of the night. The medics probably know where he’s gone, and he’s grateful that they grant him an undisturbed moment of fresh air. Watching the night sky helps him relax, helps him slow his breathing and simply exist for a while, without worries or fear. In fact, he’s an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D, he’s not even supposed to feel these kind of things in the first place. More than anything he should be grateful he’s alive, and nothing else.

But the memories always return sooner or later. Organic tea from far away, red wine and weird tasting toffee. Their never-ending banter over the comms, the way Clint would let himself into Phil’s office as if he belonged in the center of Phil’s life, and as if the decision was that easy to make, without any repercussions.

The next time he makes his way to the roof he’s greeted by a teapot. The tiny, porcelain thing is standing by the edge of the roof, trailing a thin line of steam skywards. Standing still on the spot he focuses on breathing, because he should’ve known that this would happen, that he wouldn’t be able to show himself to the outside world – however briefly – without being noticed. A million thoughts flood his mind, everything from Fury’s rage when realizing that at least one Avenger knows of Phil not actually being dead, to the relief of finally sharing his situation with someone.

He’s all too distracted to see exactly where Clint’s been hiding, but it doesn’t matter, because suddenly he’s just there. Shoulders slumped, brilliant eyes and an unreadable expression. Phil has been waiting so long – wishing, hoping – that he reaches for the archer without even realizing.

Clint breaks at that, taking the few steps left and embracing Phil completely. His voice is nothing but huffs of breath against Phil’s ear. “That was one hell of a solo mission, Boss.”

And Phil has wondered about this. What it might be like to have Clint hold him this close, to be pressed against his hard body and enveloped by those strong arms. It’s a thought he’s often – too often – lost himself to, the same way he loses himself now.

For weeks, maybe months, his life hasn’t actually felt real. It’s been hours or being awake and hours of sleeping, the same monotone schedule over and over. But right here, right now, taking deep breaths and recognizing Clint’s scent of leather and salt, he feels as if he’s just woken up for the first time since he died.

“Glad you pulled through.” Clint’s voice is more than a little broken, and Phil admires that he speaks at all. He feels guilty for not having said a word yet, but at the moment he’s too overwhelmed by being touched by someone who actually cares about him – being touched by _Clint_ – to actually attempt to speak. He resorts to hugging back, holding on tight despite how weak he still is, and for the moment it seems to be enough for both of them.

It’s not easy to pull away from Clint, even for a moment, but the night is cold and he needs to talk. He needs to be able to look Clint in the eye and just… well, whatever case, he needs to do better than nuzzle Clint’s neck and hide from the world. He owes an explanation. An apology. He owes Clint so much.

Once Clint actually lets go of him it’s only to put his arm around Phil’s waist. Guiding him to the edge of the building they sit down by the teapot, so dangerously close to fall to their deaths, and somehow, it feels perfectly fitting considering the situation.

Clint pours of a cup of tea for him; it seems to have cooled completely now, but Phil can’t bring himself to care. As he takes the cup their fingers brush, and it’s such an obvious gesture that Phil would call it shameless in any other situation. Now it seems simply reassuring.

“Clint, I should… tell you.” His voice is tired, uneasy and raw. It would be obvious to anyone – especially Clint – that he hasn’t spoken, hasn’t had an actual conversation, for months.

“Yeah, you probably should.” Clint simply stares at him. Eyes intent as he takes Phil in; the way he’s downright scrawny compared to his former self, the paleness of his skin and the shadows beneath his eyes. He does this with a thin smile, as if this is just another meeting at Phil’s office, as if the world hasn’t gone crazy since they last met.

“But there’s no need to right now. You don’t have to do anything except sit here. With me.” He’s slightly hesitant as he reaches for Phil’s hand, which would be silly except for the fact that Phil has never actually told him how much he wants this; that there are days when he aches for Clint, and feels pathetic for doing so.

Not knowing how to continue the conversation he takes a sip of the tea, noticing the Earl Grey being completely outdone by a smoky taste of whiskey.

He can’t help but to smile as he looks at Clint again. “Been to Scotland recently?”

When Clint laughs it’s not with the usual sense of freedom. There’s something broken about it – something slightly hysterical – yet he laughs until he can barely breathe. Until he’s snorting and apologizing and almost knocking his own cup over by accident.

“No. But I thought it would be fitting.”

Phil nods, leaning in closer, feeling the whiskey on his breath and the cool night around them. The moment Clint realizes his intention he’s instantly there, up close, capturing Phil’s lips with no sign of hesitation. They kiss above the neon streets so far below, beneath a starlit night, kept in a moment meant for no one but them. Clint is gentle, all fingertips and steady breaths, and everything changes that night.

Their tradition turns into something more, something outspoken and permanent. Phil knows that he won’t feel lonely again, during the rest of his recovery and whatever comes afterward. Waking up doesn’t come with a sting of disappointment anymore, but with promise.

The scent of Clint never leaves him entirely, but follows him from his sheets to his clothes to his home. It’s more than he ever hoped for, probably more than he deserves, but Phil will do anything for Clint, be it late night tea parties or taking a bullet.

Feeling Clint’s chapped lips against his that night, Phil knows that he’s found home. All he needs for a happy life, wrapped up in a silly leather costume and a laugh that, more often than not, ends with a snort.

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I write short things on [tumblr](http://comediakaidanovsky.tumblr.com/) as well (but mostly I just cry about fictional characters).


End file.
